


take my love, take it down

by BerryliciousCheerio



Series: tell my love to wreck it all [2]
Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, supernatural teenaged roadtrip hijinks, we howl to the moon sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerryliciousCheerio/pseuds/BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At night, Riley feels the pull.  </p><p>or: riley's a little restless and maya's a little tragic</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my love, take it down

**Author's Note:**

> "i was thinking maybe you could write a spinoff of 'we howl to the moon' where maya realizes riley isn't that helpless after all because she has claws maybe? meanwhile i'll curl into a ball and cry as i reread it"
> 
> your wish is my command  
> anyway u should probably read 'we howl to the moon' before u read this but u probably don't need to watch teen wolf before u read this. really, it's a judgement call
> 
> cw: blood, guns, wounds
> 
> disclaimed

 

 

 

At night, Riley feels the pull.  It’s been getting worse the closer they draw to the full moon, to the anniversary of her turn.  

It starts in her fingertips, where her claws appear if she’s not paying close enough attention.  It’ll spread to wherever Maya’s touching her, whether it’s a band across her waist where Maya threw her arm when they settled into bed or whether it’s the barest of brush of her fingers against Riley’s hip, arm thrown back across the mattress to have contact even as they inhabit different sides.  From there it spreads to her toes and crawls up her neck, snaking down her spine and inching across her scalp.  The soles of her feet is where the tension is the worst, aching for the snap of twigs giving way beneath them.

She doesn’t sleep well, to say the least.

Tonight they’re on opposite sides of the bed and it’s easy to slip out.  The hardwood floor is cold, but Riley’s never been one for flinching.  She grabs a sweater nonetheless, wrinkling her nose at the thought of Maya’s concerned face.  She’d probably tell Riley to put socks on too.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the concern, because she does.  But sometimes it’s stifling, a little hard to swallow the way Maya so resolutely plants herself between Riley and the world.  A little unbearable when Riley is so much better equipped to handle certain things than fragile, human Maya.

There’s a gash in Maya’s side, the heavy stench of iron that reminds Riley of this.

Riley’s in the kitchen catching the kettle just before it boils when Lydia pads in.  She and Allison had offered their spare bedroom to Riley and Maya soon after they came to Beacon Hills, Lydia very nearly insisting on it after their first disastrous night on their own.  

It’s nights like these that Riley starts to see the reason why.

Lydia shoots her a knowing look but says nothing, stepping around Riley silently and opening one of the cupboards.  She pulls down her box of tea, a fancy, French one that Allison doesn’t even touch.  By the time Riley’s poured out her water, Lydia’s finished readying her cup, taking the kettle from Riley with a hum of thanks.

It’s only when both of their cups are steeping that Lydia speaks.  

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?,” she says, a statement of fact, already knowing the answer.

Riley nods, biting her lip.  “She won’t let me do anything,” she murmurs after a moment.  “It’s like she thinks I’m helpless.”

Lydia takes a sip of her tea, setting it down when she deems it not ready.  “Argent women,” she sighs.  “Always so noble.”  She waits another moment, eyeing Riley carefully before saying, “Allison died when we were seventeen.”

Nodding again, Riley picks up her mug, letting the warmth chase away some of the restlessness in her fingers.

“She died because of me.”

The pack has told them this story before, but never this detail and never this quietly, like a secret being shared.  The surprise must show on Riley’s face because Lydia’s somber expression softens slightly.

“Very romantic, I know,” she deadpans.  “I’ve been swooning ever since.”  The silence hangs heavy between them until she continues.  “We were fighting a  _thing_  that had taken Stiles’s place and I knew before anyone else that it was going to be Allison.  And I denied it and I let her push me behind her at every turn.  The only thing I could do was tell them not to come after me when I was taken.”

Riley fills in the blanks.  Lydia finishes the story anyway.

“They wouldn’t tell me at first, but her last words were for me.  Asking if they found me and if I was okay.  Typical hero bullshit.”  Her voice breaks on the last word, the closest Riley’s ever seen Lydia come to tears in the two years she’s known her.  She clears her throat abruptly and Riley watches in suspended awe as Lydia pushes back emotion and returns to neutral, calm.  

Lydia still smells of grief.  Riley doesn’t think it’s something that she should comment on.  Instead, she takes a sip of her tea and waits for Lydia to do the same before she asks, “How’d you get her to stop?”

“Being a reckless asshole with no regard for her own life?” Lydia responds, eyebrows raised as she speaks around her mug.  “I didn’t.  But I stopped letting her make me stay behind.”  She leans back against the counter, staring at Riley, her hand beginning to shake.  She puts her mug down to massage her wrist, the raised scars across her palms and forearms glaringly apparent.  “We were very lucky,” Lydia says finally, seriously.  “Insanely lucky.  I paid a heavy price for that luck.  I don’t—.”  She breaks off for a moment.  “I don’t doubt that you would pay the same price, if it came down to it,” Lydia continues.  “But it’s a burden I don’t wish on anyone.”

Riley thinks that this is Lydia’s roundabout way of giving her advice.  She and Lydia aren’t particularly all that close; each of the older women sort of naturally took one of the younger under their wing and, however ironically, Allison and Riley particularly clicked, just as it was Lydia and Maya that connected more.  But she and Lydia do have this one thing, this one terrible burden that comes hand in hand with the women they love.  They carry the same sick sense of responsibility, though Lydia’s seen the worst scenario come to fruition and maybe this is the closest she can come to saying it outright.  

There aren’t words to follow what Lydia’s told her, so Riley only nods.  They finish their tea in silence, parting without a word when one of the bedroom doors opens further in the house.

In the morning, when a little of the tension in Riley has lessened and Maya’s not limping quite as much, Lydia doesn’t mention anything.

Riley feels her eyes nonetheless.

**. . .**

By the afternoon, the tension has returned tenfold.  While Maya and Lydia are out on their weekly coffee and philosophical debate date and Allison is off in the woods, sending arrows into battered trees, Riley packs some bags.

She doesn’t have a plan, per se.  More an idea.  The whisper of an idea.  A rough concept, really.  She has an image of Maya with the windows rolled down, hair flying wild in the wind and laughing that wonderful laugh of hers.  A brief thought of lying out under a desert sky.  Of watching the exhaustion leech out of Maya, into the earth and whence it came.  

When Maya and Lydia return, lattes cold and in to go cups in their hands, Riley still doesn’t have a plan.  But she has four packed bags, Maya’s favorite shotgun resting across them.  And she has a map of the US, route drawn out in bright pink Sharpie.

“What’s this?” Maya asks, nudging Riley’s duffel bag with the toe of her boot.  “You leaving me?”

She’s joking, but Riley gasps in response.  “Of course not.”  She holds up the map hesitantly, regretting her choice of Sharpie for a split second before Maya’s face lights up when she takes it from her.  “I’m taking you on vacation,” she says proudly, glancing up to catch the look of approval Lydia levels at her, lips quirking up into a small smile.  She slips out of the room then, leaving Maya and Riley alone.  

Riley turns back just in time to see the familiar concern edge back onto Maya’s features.  Biting her lip, Maya’s eyes dart to her shotgun for a moment, as if it’ll ground her, as if it’s her touchstone.  It probably is, if Riley’s being truthful.  “This’ll take a few weeks,” she murmurs, frowning.  “Through the full moon.  And hunter territory in the Midwest,” she adds, dragging her finger across the map.  When she sees their destination, carefully starred and circled, Maya pales.  “Riles,” she says quietly.  “If you want to go home, it would be safer to fly.”

Actually, Riley thinks, it would probably be safer just to stay in California.  To keep letting their families fly out to visit at Christmas and Thanksgiving and birthdays.  But that’s not the point.  The point is that Riley has claws.  Claws that Maya seems to forget about, that Maya seems to ignore.  The point is that Maya keeps pushing Riley behind her in fights, keeps catching the brunt of the blows that would glance off of Riley, that would heal in hours for her.  The point is that Riley needs this, but, more importantly, so does Maya.

She doesn’t say this, because straight forward approaches rarely work with Maya.  “That would sort of ruin the road trip aspect,” she says instead. 

Riley’s already prepared for it when Maya looks up, jaw set but eyes soft.  “Honey,” she breathes, closing her eyes briefly.  “I can’t—.”  She takes a beat, walking over to the kitchen bar and spreading the map flat on the marble.  “From Nevada,” she points, dragging her finger across the map, “to Ohio.  That’s all hunter heavy, keeping tabs on the Skinwalkers and wendigoes.”

“Are they Argents?”  _Are they dangerous?_

“Some.  Some Calaveras, some Doogans.  A few small names through the Dakotas.”  Maya stares hard at the star over New York.  It stays unspoken and probably always will, but they both know that the way things were left, the way Maya ended her ties with the Argent hunters is enough to paint giant, neon targets on both of their backs.  “It’s too dangerous,” Maya says with a finality that Riley has come to know and resent.  “Let’s plan on Disneyland, yeah?” 

Disneyland has been her party line for years; they’ve yet to go.

Riley knows that Maya acts out of love.  She knows that Maya prioritizes the world in _things that keep Riley safe, things that make Riley happy,_ and _other shit_.  She knows that Maya ensures that she wakes up an hour before Riley and goes to sleep after her, knows that she curls around Riley, never minding their height difference.  Everything Maya does these days is to protect Riley and it’s all out of a place of love, out of a place of atonement for the crimes she committed in the name of honor and family.

But Maya does this and forgets that Riley is a werewolf.  That staying still, that staying in place is something that she wasn’t good at before the turn and has only gotten worse at as time went on.  She forgets about the howl that crawls up Riley’s throat during full moons, forgets about the predatory canines that come out when she’s angry, the snarl that finds its way onto her face. 

Riley’s tired of this holding pattern and she’s tired of watching Maya limp home because of her.  “It’s not that dangerous,” she states, tacking on quickly when Maya’s mouth opens, “for a terrifying hunter _and_ a terrifying werewolf.”

“Riley,” Maya says flatly, not looking up at her.

“It’s _not_ —.”

Maya laughs derisively, walking away from the argument that’s still yet to be and heading for the kitchen.  “This isn’t a discussion,” she calls, slamming open one of the cabinets. 

The front door opens, Allison striding in and coming to a halt in the entrance of the living room.  Her eyes dart from Riley, still standing in the middle of the room, to the map on the ground, to the packed bags.  She grimaces, nodding at Riley as she slips into the hall and heads towards her and Lydia’s bedroom, in the back of the house and away from the blowout that’s inevitable by this point.

Riley waits until she hears the door close down the hall before she follows Maya into the kitchen, pausing only to fold up her map carefully and place it on top of Maya’s shotgun.  She finds her girlfriend in the kitchen, angrily putting away dishes. 

She supposes that’s a good sign.  Normally when they argue, Maya takes off for a few hours.  The fact that she’s sticking around probably means that she knows that they should just work through this, rather than sweep it under the rug for another few months.

Maya slams another plate onto the counter—Riley thinks that it’s just a stroke of luck that it’s plastic, considering that Maya cracks one of the old mugs they brought with them in her next move.  It slows her enough to get her to stop.  Her hands are shaking, Riley notices then, heart twisting but still refusing to drop this because this—this is important, right?  Important enough to fight for.

“I can’t—,” Maya starts again, her eyes wet.  “I can’t protect you from all of them.  I can’t keep you safe through that,” she tells Riley, her voice breaking.  “And I couldn’t—I won’t be able to live with myself if you get hurt.”

It’s all very decisive and Riley can’t really argue with anything that she’s saying.  Maya’s got a noble streak a mile wide, has got a hero’s tendency for self-destruction and Riley knows that she means every word.  She doesn’t think that she can protect Riley and she would rip herself apart if anything ever happened to Riley; it’s not the healthiest, but it’s what Maya knows and Riley knows it won’t change without quantifiable evidence because Maya believes in what she can see, in what is tangible.

Riley steps close, tugging Maya’s arms away from her chest so that she can hold her hand.  “I know,” she promises.  “But I won’t get hurt.  Peaches,” she doesn’t use the nickname lightly, knowing that it’s Maya’s Achilles heel.  “We make a great team.”

“The best,” Maya agrees, chin wobbling.  She’s so soft around Riley, it’s heartbreaking, really.  Weepy and sweet and patient; Riley can hardly stand it sometimes, can’t believe that she’s the reason for Maya’s own turn, taking that steel toe boot wearing wild child and leaving a soft and excruciatingly careful ball of mush in her place. 

She takes Maya’s face in her hands, brushing her thumbs under Maya’s eyes and catching the tears before they fall.  Leaning into her touch, Maya sighs, eyes closing.  “We’re not leaving until I know that you can shoot a gun,” she says without opening her eyes, a concession if there ever were.  “A big gun at that.”  Maya lets Riley reel her in, mumbling against her collarbone, “The biggest gun we can get our hands on.”

“That’s fair.”

 

**. . .**

 

It takes all of two days for Riley to figure out Maya’s shotgun, which is, to date, the biggest gun they can get their hands on.  Another day to give the pack their itinerary and to tell Allison and Lydia when they’ll be checking in.  Maya’s still not excited, vacillating between pouting loudly and giving Riley the cold shoulder and calling it _planning_ , but Riley’s dreaming of the open road and of the smell of Arizona, all burning sand and cacti.  She barely remembers it from the drive out to California, can only remember a haze of fear and adrenaline, can only see Maya’s hand in hers.  It’ll do them some good to make some memories that aren’t fear based.

They load up the car on Saturday morning, on the first warm day of spring.  “You’re driving the first leg,” Maya tells her, packing their bags tightly into the trunk of Riley’s Jetta.  “Don’t take any backroads.”

After the first hour, Maya hasn’t relaxed her grip on her shotgun, but she’s slipped her sunglasses down over her eyes and is snacking grumpily.  Riley takes it as progress, reaching over to nudge the volume up when she recognizes the next song on her _ROADTRIP HOME FT. THE LOVE OF MY LIFE_ playlist.  She doesn’t see it, more senses it when Maya slides her sunglasses up to make sure that Riley can see when looks over at her, begrudgingly sweet smile taking hold.

“You’re such a sap,” Maya says as they enter the second hour, the song filling the silence that stretches out after Riley hums a happy response. 

Maya keeps her head on a swivel after that, tensing as they enter the desert; the red dirt that stretches from California to Colorado is notorious for its bands of rogue hunters, working with their own code.  But beyond that, the desert is notorious for its supernatural creatures.

They reach a stretch of highway where other cars are few and far between.  Riley keeps her foot on the gas, not faltering even as Maya begins to drum her fingers along the maple stock of her gun.  The air is chattering, crackling around them; Riley knows that Maya can’t hear it, but she’s sure that her training is more than enough to sense the unease of the world around them.

She doesn’t remember it being so scary the first time—their nerves were from anticipation, Riley thinks.  They were escaping, running towards safety.  And now they’re running back into the storm with only each other as back up. 

For the first time, Riley considers turning around.

But then Maya drops a hand onto Riley’s knee.  Her eyes stay on their surroundings, but it’s enough.

The road stretches before them and Riley drives on.

  **. . .**

Riley wakes up in a strange bed, alone.

It takes a moment for her head to clear, but when it does, she remembers the driving that stretched on for hours, the sand giving way to a tiny town in the middle of the desert.  The only slightly shady motel and the clerk that shot Riley and Maya a disapproving look when Maya said they wouldn’t need two beds.

Speaking of Maya—Riley starts to sit up to look around when the light catches on the gold of Maya’s hair.  She’s over by the window, crouched down and lining up her sight.  Glancing back, Maya waves her back, hissing, “Get _down_.”

Riley does no such thing, slipping out and crawling over to join Maya against the far wall.  Ignoring her girlfriend’s glare, Riley asks, “What’s going on?”  She peeks around the edge of the curtain and scans the parking lot.  There’s nothing to see exactly, but the hairs on the back of Riley’s neck stand up just the same.

“Not sure yet,” Maya whispers back tersely.  “Something tripped the wards I placed.”

Glancing out again, Riley spots something.  A pack of them, whipping around through the night, dancing at the edge of the shadows cast by the streetlights.  “Amphisbaenas,” Riley supplies.  “Three, I think.” 

Maya readies her aim.  “Point me in their direction,” she instructs, nudging the curtain open a bit more.  “And get ready to run.”

They left most of their bags in the car, something that Riley was a little exasperated by at the time, but thoroughly appreciates now.  Nodding, Riley gives her the directions.  “Aim left,” she says, scanning the writhing darkness.  The first shot shatters the glass and sounds not unlike an explosion.  It scares Riley a little, how easily she’s adjusted to this noise.  The first of the monsters falls and Riley feeds Maya the rest of the directions in short succession.  “Up, right.”  _Bang._ “Left of the car.”  _Bang_.  _Bang._ The motel is suspiciously silent.

And then—

the fourth and unseen amphisbaena leaps out of the shadows, headed towards Riley through the empty windowpane.  Riley senses it, braces herself for impact and draws on that unending anger that finds a home in her chest.

And then she’s falling back, tumbling onto the worn carpet.  There’s a shout, a flash of gold and leather blocking her.  The sound of fabric, flesh tearing and then that god-awful shriek that Riley knows too well.  Maya lets off a shot, the creature falling across the pane with a cry and writhing for a moment before it falls still, dead. 

And then it’s quiet. 

Maya’s lying on the ground, the blood from the wound across her chest pooling around her and soaking into the carpet, turning the dirty gray a terrifying black.  “ _Shit_ ,” is all Riley can find to say as she crawls over to Maya, grabbing her discarded shirt from the day and balling it up, pressing it to Maya’s chest.  “Jesus, Maya—.”

Her grip is weak when Maya grabs her wrist, blood dripping out the side of her mouth.  “The salve,” she gasps out.  “Lydia’s salve.  In my purse.” 

“Can you hold this?” Riley asks, replacing her hands with Maya’s own.  “Keep pressing down.”  It hurts to leave her side, but Riley doesn’t have to go far, leaning back just enough to snag Maya’s bag off the chair in the corner of the room.  There are at least a dozen unmarked vials and tubes and jars, all probably for one thing or another, but the tricky thing with alchemy is that, sometimes, if you use one salve for a wound it’s not meant for, you die. 

Riley is rather staunchly against Maya dying, so she dumps out the contents of Maya’s purse onto the bloodstained floor.  “Lime is for L is for Lydia,” she breathes, holding bottles up to the light of the streetlamps, heaving a sigh of relief when she finds it.  “Okay,” she says, crawling back over to Maya and brushing her hair out of her eyes.  “Okay, this’ll fix you right up, yeah?” 

Maya’s eyes are fluttering now, her pulse weak and thready when Riley takes it.  It’s all too easy to pull her hands away from her chest, weak as she is, and Riley doesn’t even have to unbutton her shirt, more just peel away the scraps of fabric held in place by dried blood.

The wounds aren’t mortal, Riley hopes, just not great.  The deep gashes stretch from the left side of her neck down to her right hip, and, if Maya were conscious, she’d probably be pissed that this’ll ruin her bikini and beach plans for the summer.  But—uh.  Maya’s not conscious and Riley’s heart starts hammering, her hands shaking as she tries to uncap the bottle.  She applies it sloppily, probably using more than she’s supposed to, but the bleeding is stopping and that’s all Riley can bring herself to care about.

She can’t move Maya when she’s like this, so settles next to her, lifting up Maya’s head to let it rest on her thigh and reaching across her to grab the bloodstained shotgun.  They stay like that until just before dawn; Riley doesn’t sleep, just keeps her attention split between Maya and the parking lot, tensing with every irregular beat of Maya’s heart.

The faintest pink paints the sky when Riley looks back and finds Maya awake, eyes trained on her.  “Hey,” Maya croaks, reaching for Riley’s free hand. 

Riley lets her lace their fingers together, comforted by the strength in Maya’s hold.  She has a fair few words she wants to share with Maya, but most of them are fight starters.  “Morning sleepy,” she says instead, taking on some of Maya’s pain.  “Do you think you can move?”

 

**. . .**

 

They don’t talk on the second leg of the trip, Maya picking up on Riley’s mood, which soured the moment she knew that Maya was going to be fine.  Riley keeps her eyes trained on the road and Maya keeps her head on a swivel, shotgun in her lap, only recently cleaned of her blood. 

“Are you going to ignore me for the rest of the trip?” Maya asks flatly.  When Riley doesn’t answer, she adds, “It’ll be a long two weeks if you are.”

Riley sets her eyes on the sign welcoming them to Nevada.  Waits until they’re passed it.  Finally, she says, “You nearly died.” 

Her words fill up the space between them, sucking up the sunlight that’s streaming into the car from the high noon sun.  Riley hears Maya’s breathing catch, stutter.  The guilt rolling off of her in waves is nearly suffocating.  Sometimes Riley really hates the _heightened senses_ thing.

For the first time since they left Beacon Hills, Maya’s grip on her shotgun loosens.  Riley can feel her eyes on her, but doesn’t look over, tears already gathering in the corners of her eyes.  “You were really good,” Maya tells her, promises her.  “You did so good.”

She’s so earnest, it breaks Riley a little.  “I shouldn’t have had to,” Riley snaps anyway.  “I shouldn’t have to keep bringing you back from the brink.”  Because last night wasn’t even the first.  Because Riley _should_ be haunted by what happened, but it’s already fallen into the mess of memories of similar experiences, already blurring into one brush with death or another.  Because Riley knows that shriek Maya gave up last night like she knows her mother’s voice.  “I shouldn’t have to keep watching you almost die because of me,” she adds in a whisper, making the decision and pulling the car off onto the shoulder.

When they’re parked, a little ways outside of the town they’re planning on staying in tonight, Riley still doesn’t look at Maya.  She fiddles with her seatbelt and with the AC settings and with the radio, eventually just settling on wringing her hands in her lap.

The butt of the shotgun hits the side of the door when Maya lets it slide to the ground.  The noise has Riley looking over just in time to see Maya unbuckling and getting out of the car as quickly as her recently torn apart body will let her.  Riley follows suit, hairs on her arms standing on end when she hears Maya starting to give hoarse little half-screams.  Maya’s still stumbling away from the road, into the desert, but Riley’s longer legs help her catch up with ease. 

“Get back in the car,” Maya commands when she sees her, no real strength left in her voice.  Riley’s unsettled by that first, the tears tracking down Maya’s face second.  Hunching over, hands on her knees, Maya repeats, “Go back to the car,” desperation lacing her words.

They’ve never really talked about Maya’s anxiety—Maya hasn’t ever wanted to admit to it, so Riley’s just carefully kept track of her triggers and done her own sort of protecting, steering Maya away from men with loud voices and flashing lights and any sort of movies with bad fathers.  So this—this isn’t hard for Riley to figure out.  The tears, the shallow breathing, the way Maya seems to be falling to the ground in slow motion, looking for an anchor.  Riley sits in the sand and drops the car keys into her lap, waiting for Maya to join her in the dirt.

Maya does, eventually; she sits across from Riley, covering her face with her shaking hands.  “I’m sorry,” she says in a shuddering breath.  “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ ,” she keeps crying, shoulders shaking, until eventually Maya’s just whispering something to herself, too quiet for Riley to hear, even with her heightened hearing. 

They stay like this for what might be hours.  The sun is dipping below the horizon when Maya finally lets Riley tugs a hand away from her face to hold.  Stars in the sky before Maya lets Riley hold her, still heaving those awful sobs occasionally.  “I just want to keep you safe,” Maya whispers against Riley’s collarbone.  “I can’t lose you.”  _Too_ , Riley adds silently.  _I can’t lose you too_. 

“I’m not—,” Riley starts, looking up to the sky for answers.  She stops, feeling Maya’s shoulders tense against her once more.  “I know,” she amends.  “But I can’t lose you either.”  But now is not the time nor place to argue that, to try and convince Maya that their lives are worth the same, to tell her that Riley would be destroyed if one day she didn’t come back from a fight and it was because Maya was trying to protect her. 

Riley tells her an amended version of this, earning a shaky promise from Maya in response.  “We’ll talk after we eat,” she tells Riley, pressed so close that Riley can feel when her eyes close, can feel the flutter of her eyelashes against her neck.

Riley can do nothing but nod, keeping her arm around Maya and helping her to her feet.  It’s at least a ten minute walk back to the car, though that’s mostly due to their stumbling over the weeds and rocks that litter the desert.  Once there, though, Riley deposits Maya into the passenger seat, waiting until she’s buckled before she closes the door and goes around to the driver’s side to gets in.  They drive in silence for the most part, only occasional words exchanged over mundane things until they pull into the parking lot of a little diner, just down the street from their motel.

“Pancakes sound good,” Maya says, sitting across from Riley in the 50’s era bench seats, menu hiding most of her face.  “Want to split a stack?”

“You need protein,” Riley says gently.  “Bacon or sausage or something.  Steak, maybe.”

“Always looking out for me, aren’t you honey?”

Beneath the table, Riley reaches out to nudge the toe of her boot against Maya’s ankle, the only answer to her mostly rhetorical question.  Of course she’s always looking out for her—it’s nearly the only thing Riley can do for Maya at this point.  But again—fight starter.

Their waitress makes another pass by their table, her frown lessening slightly when Riley indicates that they’re ready to order.  Maya lets her order it all, only frowning a little when Riley orders chocolate chip pancakes instead of the whole grain, flax seed stuff that Riley’s sure she was angling for.

It’s been a long couple of days.  Riley thinks that they deserve this. 

Once their waitress has disappeared towards the back of the deserted diner, Riley reaches for Maya’s hands.  “Are you feeling better?” she asks, rubbing circles with her thumbs on the back of Maya’s hands.

“Well, my chest hurts like a bitch,” Maya laughs, pulling one hand away to rub at the uninjured portion of her collarbone. 

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m—,” Maya sighs.  “I’m better.”

Which is, of course, code for _I still feel like screaming, but it’s manageable._   Riley nods shortly, squeezing Maya’s hand before she says, “Good.  Because we need to talk tonight.”

“Can we not?”

Riley hopes that the look she levels at Maya is withering, or at least close to it.  From the sheepish look she gets in response, Riley would say it’s somewhere in the vicinity of withering. 

Maya lets out a breath.  “Okay,” she says.  “After dinner.  At the motel.”

“Ring power?” Riley asks, running her thumb across the ring that Maya wears on her ring finger, the ring that Riley has a twin of.

Eyes closing and shoulders slumping, Maya promises, “Ring power.”

  **. . .**

Dinner is pleasant—better than their drive, though it’s not hard to top.  Maya starts wincing near the end of it, hand fluttering near the top of her bandages, and Riley calls for the check.  Their motel is only a mile or so down the road, closer to the middle of town and therefore somewhat safer than their last.  They’d checked in before heading to the diner, so it’s with great relief that, after parking, Riley’s able to get Maya settled against soft pillows and bring one of the bags up.

When she gets back to the room and kicks the door closed, Maya’s already peeled off her shirt and is picking at the edges of the surgical tape holding down her gauze.  “Hey,” Riley snaps.  “Don’t pull at that yet.”

“It itches,” Maya whines, though she drops her hands to her sides and waits dutifully.

“I know, punk,” Riley shoots back.  “It’ll itch worse when it gets infected.”

“My doctor seems to have a terrible bedside manner, Riles, I think I need a new one.”

Riley kisses her then, fast and hard before she retreats to get the medical supplies out of their bag and getting things ready to dress Maya’s wounds.  Lydia gave them at least three months’ worth of her salve, probably predicting their knack for finding danger, and Riley grabs one of the bottles that she had packed and brings it back with her.  The pajamas she’d grabbed for Maya are placed on the bed beside her, neatly folded and waiting as Riley starts to ease the tape off Maya’s chest. 

“This isn’t going to feel great,” she warns Maya, stopping to roll the bralette she’d elected to wear for the day up and over her head to keep it out of the way.  “It will probably hurt really, really bad, actually.”

Maya’s eyes squeeze shut, her whole body tensing as she instructs, “Just rip it off.  My skin’s fine.”

Riley doesn’t answer, nor does she really rip the tape off, though she speeds up her actions once she notices the goosebumps forming on Maya’s shoulders.  “Okay,” she huffs, remembering the fear from last night.  “Lay back.”

Maya does as she’s asked, stretching out her legs to one side of Riley.  Now that her patient’s flat, Riley’s able to spread the healing salve over Maya’s chest easier, being sure to use only what she needs this time.  Maya lets out a little hiss of pain when Riley reaches the deepest part of the gashes across her ribcage, but is otherwise silent, eyes trained towards the ceiling until Riley finishes.  Then and only then does Maya meet her eyes.  “Thanks, sunshine,” she murmurs, voice weak.  “I owe ya one.”

She means it as a joke, Riley knows.  But it hits close to home and she finds herself saying harshly, “Exactly the opposite, I think.”

Moving stiffly, Maya sits, grabbing the shirt Riley’d laid out for her and pulling it over her head, covering herself in preparation for this inevitable argument.  And then she looks so tired, so bruised in the worn shirt and her jeans from the day, dusty and ripped, hair wild around her—Riley nearly backs down.  Nearly tells her _forget it, it’s fine, let’s just get some sleep_. 

But then she remembers last night, waking up to fear and not sleeping since, remembers the deep red of Maya’s blood as it soaked the carpet and Riley’s shirt, slipping between her fingers as she’d done her best to stop the damage.

“You can’t place my life above your own,” Riley says finally, somehow dragging herself out of the flashback.  Maya opens her mouth to argue, but Riley adds quickly, “You can’t keep doing that unless you let me do it too.  Let me protect you as much as you protect me.”

“Riles—.”

“And honestly?”  Riley stands now, beginning to pace.  She crosses her arms to keep from gesturing when she says, “Don’t feed me this bullshit about atonement.”

Maya sucks in a breath sharply and Riley looks over in time to see the anger in her eyes before she shoves off the bed and stands unsteadily, planting herself firmly in Riley’s path.  “How _dare_ you,” Maya hisses, arms at her sides but hands in fists just the same.  “Riley, I’ve done everything to make sure you’re—.”

“Safe!  I know, Maya, but you’re killing yourself to do it.  Have you ever—?” Riley breaks off, tearing up and throat closing.  “Have you ever considered where that would leave me?  How I would feel if you died?” she finally forces out.

 “And do you know how I’d feel if you’d—Riley, I was sent to kill you,” Maya half shouts, her voice breaking on the final _you_.  “And there was a moment—.” 

She doesn’t finish her sentence, and Riley doesn’t need her to to understand.  Maya was born into a storm and sometimes storms can’t be recovered from; sometimes they take more than a pretty girl to end.  Riley remembers the stench of grief, the unmistakable tang of silver when Maya met her after the failed hit.  How she’d sobbed for hours afterwards, flinching whenever Riley tried to hold her, like Maya couldn’t bear for Riley to touch her.  Maya’s never said it so explicitly, but Riley’s always known how close Maya had come to killing her, to choosing her family and her legacy over Riley and her messy life and shaking hands.  How she’s been trying to make up for it ever since.

Fun fact: Riley Matthews has never held this singular event against Maya Hart.  Ever.  And never will, honestly.  It may not make for the best self-preservation, being so quick to ignore the fact that Maya was once a trained killer, had once held Riley in her crosshairs and had her finger on the trigger, but Riley looks at Maya now, eyes wide and deep and impossibly blue, filled to the brim with remorse and self-loathing and love and she knows that she’s made the best choice.  Even if it’s the most infuriating thing in the world that Maya refuses to see that.

“I know,” Riley breathes finally.  Maya lets out a long breath, stepping back and putting as much space between the two of them as the small room allows.  Riley’s never said this so explicitly either.  A night of firsts, then.  Riley continues, “But you didn’t.  And you’ve more than atoned.”

She can see Maya doing the mental math, tallying up the lives she’s taken against the lives she’s saved and seeing if it all adds up.  Riley knows that there’s nothing she can say, really, that’ll make Maya think about herself differently, at least not now. 

So, instead—Riley steps in close to Maya, crossing the space between them in a few short steps and gently placing one of her hands over Maya’s heart, her wounds.  “Peaches,” she whispers, staring at Maya with unmasked concern and reverence, the very same look that Maya has so often directed at her.  “Maya, I don’t want to grow old alone,” she tells her, reaching up with her free hand to cup Maya’s face.

Maya leans into the touch for a moment, eyes falling shut briefly.  And then it ends.  “Almost dying comes with the territory,” she says weakly, voice stronger with her next words, as if she’s made a decision.  “If you can’t accept that,” Maya says seriously, “then maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

Riley tries not to recoil, she really does.  She tries to tell herself that this is how Maya copes, how she survives; that this is a defense mechanism, pushing Riley away to avoid getting hurt further.  That this is another twisted part of her overprotection.

But the words hurt more than Riley could have ever expected.  She stumbles back, staring at Maya incredulously.  “What the _fuck_?” she finds herself saying and then saying again.  And again.  And again until the only words making it out of Riley’s mouth are those and Maya’s name. 

Maya doesn’t say anything, just stands in the dim light of their room and tracks Riley in silence.  It’s an infuriating sight right now, with Riley filled to the brim with hurt and love and heartbreak.  How easily Maya had said those words.  As if she’d thought about this before.  As if she’d rehearsed the words if ever the need came about.  Everything hurts in Riley and she can feel the same hurt from Maya, hating more than ever the ability to sense and smell every turn of emotion. 

“I can’t—,” she stammers, turning and grabbing for her jacket and phone.  “I can’t stay here.”

She’s out the door when Maya says something else, something like _I’m sorry_ or _I was wrong_ or _good riddance_.  Riley doesn’t wait around to find out which.

  **. . .**

She didn’t take the car, because she’s not a monster.  However, she wasn’t expecting how terribly scary the desert is at night. 

Riley’s been walking for at least an hour, well into the sandy dunes of Nevada’s desert thanks to werewolf stamina and speed.  She tries not to think about Maya, though that’s her first instinct.  Maya—first, last, always. 

And then, as if summoned, Maya’s there, stalking up and cutting Riley off.  She’s without her trusty shotgun for once, speaking the most to her emotional state.  If that weren’t enough, there’s Maya’s appearance—rumpled and haphazard, she’s got on Riley’s coat and mismatched boots, tears staining the collar of her shirt.  “Riley,” she says thickly.  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Stepping around her and continuing into the desert, Riley doesn’t answer, too worried her voice will shake and all her anger will be replaced with that awful, unending sadness that only comes from the love of your life telling you that you should break up.

Maya, to her credit, keeps up with Riley as best as she can.  “I just can’t let you get hurt,” she tries to explain.  “All the awful things I’ve done and all the pain I’ve caused—it’s like I feel like it’ll get wiped away if I can just keep you safe.”  Riley doesn’t respond, so she continues.  “ _God_ , Riley, I love you more than my own life.  And I know you hate that, but my life hasn’t been worth much until I met you.  And I just—I can’t lose you.  If that means I die in the process of keeping you safe, then that’s what happens.  I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Lydia told me about how Allison died,” Riley says quietly, answered only with a blank look.  It’s no secret that Allison was once dead, struck down in battle.  “Allison died because of Lydia.  Trying to protect her.”

Maya’s quiet at that, coming to a stop only when Riley does, when they’re directly under her favorite constellation.  “Lydia told me a few nights ago.  How she’d always been protecting Lydia until that night.”

“I didn’t know,” Maya says quietly.

“Do you just think that I don’t feel the same way about you?” Riley asks.  “That I wouldn’t be destroyed if you died?  Lydia sold her soul to bring Allison back—don’t you think that I would do the same in a heartbeat for you?”

And then, in such a small voice that it’s only thanks to Riley’s superhearing that she can catch it, Maya says, “I just don’t think I deserve that.”

And then, of course, whatever Maya’s about to say after that is swallowed up in a howl, the werewolf coming out of thin air and launching at Maya.  Riley’s shifting in the space between breaths and charging, all her hurt and anger getting pushed into her hands when she knocks Maya back and catches the first blow, her claws out. 

The moon is high as they fight, each struggling for the upper hand.  Riley’s inexperienced, but her opponent is weak, thin enough for Riley to count each individual rib in his torso; the struggle goes on, until Riley lands a particularly powerful blow to his ear, just above the mark that brands him an omega, watching him howl in pain and take off, the darkness around them swallowing him up once he’s far enough.

Riley stays where she is until she can’t smell him anymore.  Then she turns, swiping the edge of her sleeve under her nose and pulling it away bloody.  Her blood cools quickly enough, growing cold with fear when she takes in the sight before her.

Maya’s on the ground, her eyes closed and breathing labored.  In the dark, Riley can’t see her shirt, can only discern the difference between her pale skin and her dark clothes—it doesn’t mean that she can’t smell the blood.

She’s at her side in a breath, heart hammering painfully against her ribs.  Whatever exasperation, whatever anger she felt towards Maya before is long gone now, replaced by a heavy dread that settles over Riley’s shoulders, that slows her hands as she reaches to brush Maya’s hair away from her face.  “Maya,” she whispers, stumbling over the two syllables.  “Maya, sweetheart—.”

There’s a moment.  A hitch in Maya’s breathing that leaves Riley shaking, panicked.  And then Maya’s eyes are opening, wide and blue and a little unfocused as she stares up at Riley.  “Shit—,” Maya gasps, lifting her hand weakly towards Riley’s face but dropping it before she can reach.  “You’re bleeding.”

“Just a little,” Riley laughs.  And then—because they were fighting before this, because everything recently has made Riley feel unsteady and unsure, Riley asks, “Can I lift your shirt?  I can smell blood on you.”

Maya nods, eyes locked on Riley.  She tries not to feel self-conscious, tries not to let her hands fumble too much.  She feels like they’re back in high school, like they don’t live together or share a bed every night.  Riley tells Maya to hold the shirt just under her chin and she does as she’s instructed, flinching only once when Riley’s cool hands meet her too warm skin. 

All of her wounds have opened up again, whatever healing urged on by the salve halted and undone with the frenzy of tonight.  Riley feels the guilt welling up, wondering how hard she hit her to throw her back.  She’d thought it had been a light enough touch, but now—.

“Riles,” Maya coughs, as if reading her mind.  “It wasn’t you.  He c-caught me before you got to him.” 

Nodding, Riley tries to accept her words, laying one hand on the uninjured side of Maya’s waist, taking on as much of her pain as she can before Maya’s bats her hand away.  “Don’t,” Maya demands.  “You need your strength.”  _I don’t deserve it_.

“You can’t walk like this,” Riley says, changing the subject.  “And we don’t have the salve here.  I—I think I’m going to have to carry you.”

Maya looks like she’s about to try to stand out of sheer stubbornness, so Riley rolls her shirt down and scoops her up before she has the chance.  Maya gives up a little gasp, her arms going around Riley’s neck on instinct and Riley starts to leech a little of her pain as they walk, just enough that Maya will feel better, but not notice.

Maya’s cheek is warm against Riley’s collarbone, her breath no longer coming in pained gasps as it deepens and evens, her head falling heavily onto Riley’s shoulder as she falls asleep twenty minutes into the walk back to the car where Maya left it, at the edge of the desert.  Riley pauses to kiss her forehead, wanting nothing more than to have her stay this unburdened forever.

The rest of the walk goes slowly, the dark making Riley more cautious than normal.  She eases Maya into the passenger seat, leaning it back to let her keep sleeping.  It’s well into the night when she makes it back to their motel, pulling into the parking lot and finding a space in front of their room with ease; a quarter past midnight, she reads off the clock on the bedside table as she sets Maya down on the bed.  Her girlfriend—maybe?  Maybe still girlfriend?—stirs slightly, curling onto her uninjured side after Riley’s applied more of the salve.

Whatever they are to each other as of tonight—the sight of Maya still has tenderness blooming in Riley’s chest, warming her.  She slides the covers out from under Maya as gently as she can, pulling them over her in her next move.  Riley still hasn’t slept, but she doesn’t plan to, moving to grab Maya’s shotgun.  She pauses when Maya makes a sleepy sound of protest, missing Riley’s warmth and presence even in sleep. 

The thought has Riley stumbling, hurrying to grab the gun and place it at her side when she crawls into the bed to sit beside Maya.  Reaching out, Riley plays with the ends of Maya’s hair, what’s not matted with her own blood.  Maya, in turn, places her hand onto Riley’s thigh.

It stays there through the night.

  **. . .**

Maya wakes with a start as the sun creeps into their room, her fingers digging into Riley’s leg.  “Hey, Peaches, hey, it’s okay,” Riley soothes immediately.  “You’re safe.  We’re safe.”

It still takes a moment for Maya’s eyes to clear, for her grip to relax on Riley’s leg.  “We were in the desert,” Maya breathes.  “And you—.”  She breaks off, staring up at Riley, who, for her part, knows that she must be quite the sight. 

She hadn’t exactly had time to wash up and she’s sure that even if the scratches and gashes have healed, even if the bruises are no more, there’s more than enough dried blood in her hair and on her face and clothes to be enough of an explanation.  Still, though—she doesn’t say anything, just smooths her hand over Maya’s hair and nods silently. 

It must be confirmation enough, because then Maya’s up, ignoring Riley’s warning, her worried hands, and she’s lurching forward, throwing her arms around Riley.  They tumble back, the shotgun that was Riley’s companion through the night slipping off the bed and hitting the floor with a muted thud. 

“I’m sorry,” Riley feels Maya say into the crook of her neck, arms tight around her.  “I didn’t mean it.”

Riley tucks her face into Maya’s hair, breathes past the rust of blood or the burn of the desert—smells the lavender soap she uses, the lemon shampoo.  Smells the girl she loves and feels all the unsteady parts of her settle into place once more.  “It’s alright, Peaches,” she finds herself saying, holding Maya tightly until she stops shuddering quite so much.  “I know.”

When Maya rolls away, just half off of Riley, her eyes are wet.  “Shit,” Riley says. “Are you in pain?”  She drags one hand up Maya’s side purposefully, sensing for the telltale twist of pain.  It comes, but much milder than Riley was expecting, than it should be if Maya’s crying.

“S’not that,” Maya murmurs, taking Riley’s arm and wrapping it around her, hand on her hip.  She swipes at her face, wiping away the tears that’ve spilled in quick succession.  “You’re just right.  Like always.”

Not the words Riley was expecting either.  She doesn’t press, and, for a few quiet moments, she thinks that Maya may not explain.

But then she does, voice steady.  “I was underestimating you. I couldn’t justify doing the things I did if I thought that you were in just as deep for me,” Maya says quietly, turning her face into Riley’s shoulder, hiding.

Riley squeezes Maya’s hip lightly.  “How could I not be?” she asks in muted wonder.  “You literally left your entire life behind just to keep me safe.  You gave up something you worked so hard for to be with me.”  She kisses Maya’s forehead, pulling her closer carefully.  “That’s the sort of romantic crap that gets you a girlfriend for life,” she adds after a beat.

Maya hums happily in response, snuggling closer and yawning wide enough that Riley hears her jaw pop.  “’M sleepy,” she murmurs against Riley.  “Can we go a little off schedule?”

Riley starts to throw back a quip about how they’re already six hours behind schedule, but then Maya’s eyes flutter closed again and whatever leftover tension leaves her shoulders and Riley’s never felt so tired, never felt so drained.  It’s been a long few days, probably only going to get longer from here on out. 

But for now, she’s warm.  The love of her life is lying half on top of her, letting herself be held for once.  They’re good, solid.  The desert town isn’t quite so scary in the daylight.  Riley feels her eyelids drooping, and, instead of resisting, lets herself be taken under by the gentle pull of sleep.

 

  **. . .**

 

The next two weeks aren’t great, but they’re manageable with Riley and Maya in sync once more, with Maya slowly starting to hold off on intervention until it becomes clear that she actually needs help in the few more skirmishes that they encounter on their journey.

It’s worth it when they pull up in front of Riley’s family’s home, the old brownstone in Manhattan that has claw marks on the bannisters, has a perpetually open bay window.  Has memories.  Has her family.

Her parents and Auggie are waiting for her.  Riley feels Maya let out a sigh—she hadn’t expected her mother to be there, but Riley knows that she’d hoped.

Auggie meets them at the curb, running down the steps and throwing his arms around his big sister’s waist.  He’s nearly her height now, his tangle of hair coming in just below Riley’s nose.  She hugs her baby brother tightly, having felt his absence perhaps a bit harder.  They’d both been traumatized on that street in the fall, both been torn apart in unknown ways.  If anything, leaving Auggie would be Riley’s regret.

And then Auggie’s let her go, moving onto Maya with his customary _hurt my sister and I’ll get my girlfriend to beat you up_ speech that ends in a bear hug to Maya, who Auggie’s finally got a few inches on. 

Riley’s parents reach them quickly, exchanging hugs and pleasantries and gentle concern over their wrecked appearance.  Riley’s mom takes her hand and doesn’t drop it, even as they walk up to the house, her dad and Maya insisting that they’ve got the bags.  Riley’s holding the front door open for Maya when Katy Hart comes running up the sidewalk. 

“Baby girl,” she huffs when she’s close enough, arms open wide and waiting.  “You didn’t think I’d miss your homecoming, did you?”

Maya hesitates for only a moment, glancing back and catching Riley’s eye.  “Go,” Riley insists, taking the bags from her and grinning wide as she watches Maya sprint down to meet her mother and throw herself into Katy’s arms.  They stay on the sidewalk for quite some time, and Riley tries very hard to ignore whatever they’re saying after she catches the initial sob of _Mommy, I missed you so much_.

But eventually they come in.  Riley’s heart swells so much that she thinks it might burst at the sight of it, of everyone around the Matthews’s cramped dining table. 

And later that night, as Riley and Maya are curled around each other in Riley’s childhood bed, across from the window that Maya used to sneak through whenever Riley texted she’d had a nightmare or was having flashbacks or just didn’t want to be alone—later that night, Riley whispers a proposal up to the ceiling because she can’t bear to look at Maya, can’t bear that all-encompassing, heartbreaking tenderness that fills her up when she does.

“Maybe,” she begins.  “Maybe one day, when things are a little easier and a little lighter and a little better—when that day comes, I want you to know that you have an open invitation to become a Matthews.”

She thinks that Maya’s asleep and nearly jumps out of bed when Maya murmurs against her shoulder blades, “Same to you, future Mrs. Hart.”

 

**. . .**

 

When they return to California, they’re lighter, happier.  Riley doesn’t feel the same pull to the woods—rather, she feels a pull across the bed, towards Maya.  Maya makes the effort, helping Scott train Riley so that her heart won’t hurt quite as much when she watches her girl run into the middle of the fight. 

And on one fine spring day, years later, when things are a little easier and a little lighter and a little better, Riley and Maya meet in the middle, slipping simple gold bands onto each other’s fingers in front of pack, in front of family.

It’s quite the fairytale ending, Riley thinks.

 

 

 


End file.
